


Knockoffs

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Robots, Spies & Secret Agents, War, dirty deals done dirt cheap, implied only non-consensual drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 07:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: A tale of two MTOs and what they each value in life.





	Knockoffs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Decepticonsensual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/gifts).



> This one is for Decepticonsensual for the Getaway commentary that inspired this fic!
> 
> Theme Song: "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman
> 
> "Leave tonight, or live and die this way."
> 
> Continuity Notes!
> 
> This fic could easily fit into the same timeline as “Nudge” (my previous Getaway fic), but this story stands alone, so there’s no need to read “Nudge” first.
> 
> This story—or rather, the last chapter of it—is in a different continuity than “On My Dark and Lonely Side” (the Tarnsaurus epic). Specifically, by the end, Deathsaurus wouldn’t be meeting up with Getaway in these circumstances if he still had an alliance with Tarn. Deathsaurus’s origin, though, is the same in both continuities.

_Cybertron_

_Half a million years after Simanzi_

Getaway hadn’t intended on working tonight. It was supposed to be his night off. That was why he’d wound up in this dive bar to begin with, having a couple drinks, looking for someone interesting to talk to. Well, he’d found someone interesting, all right—but not in the way he’d intended. 

He’d been swirling his drink in his glass when he’d overheard the bouncer’s voice explaining that this was an _Autobot_ bar. 

Getaway raised his head just in time to see the new arrival look the bartender in the optics and reply, “Are you kicking us out, then?” 

A line like that could run the gamut from threat to plea, but Getaway rarely heard such a line delivered in a perfectly neutral tone, as though the speaker truly didn’t understand the bouncer’s intention and wished to clarify it. 

The bouncer, for his part, looked bewildered that the Decepticons in his doorway weren’t in a hurry to start trouble, or to leave. They just hovered there, looking at their leader, and their leader looked at the bouncer, waiting patiently for his reply. The bouncer threw a desperate glance over his shoulder at the bartender. 

“Do they have shanix?” the bartender called. 

The leader, in reply, held up a cred chip. 

The bouncer took it, slid it into his reader, passed it back. “Their money’s good.” 

“Let them in, then.” 

The bouncer huffed. “You’re welcome as long as you’re buying and behaving.” 

The bar fell quiet. The Decepticon leader glanced around the room and pointed to an empty table in the corner. His friends, or troops, or whatever they were went to the bar, ordered their drinks, and filled the seats at the table, chattering amongst themselves while the leader stood back and scanned the room again. Some of the other clientele gave the Decepticons dirty looks. Getaway watched as the leader’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t attack, didn’t even speak, though he had no qualms about staring down anyone who stared at him, until the others looked away. 

Getaway checked his files. 

The leader’s name was Scimitar of the First Urayan Offensive, but everyone called him… 

Getaway squinted. 

“Deathsaurus?” he muttered. 

Getaway reminded himself that MTOs were not always the best at naming themselves. Primus knew many of his surviving cohort had given themselves embarrassing monikers. Skymaster had crashed and burned in his attempt to master anything; and Speedfreak had discovered to his dismay that heavy trucks were not, in fact, all that fast. It wasn’t surprising that an MTO—particularly a Decepticon, given the culture of the enemy faction—would want a name that sounded frightening and dangerous. He’d clearly given up the entirely respectable name Scimitar for a preposterous name like Deathsaurus. 

Still. Prowl had flagged Deathsaurus as someone to watch. Autobot Intelligence wanted to learn more about him. 

According to his file, Scimitar/Deathsaurus was the ambitious sort. His rise from squad leader to battalion commander had been nothing short of meteoric. Now he was in the running for field commander, and heavily favoured for the position. 

A MTO. A Decepticon Field Commander. 

Getaway fought down an irrational surge of envy. He was Spec Ops, and he was good at his job, and his job made a difference. If an intelligence operative wasn’t a public figure the way a Field Commander was, well, that shouldn’t matter to him. 

But it did. 

Deathsaurus was a MTO, and a _beastformer_ no less. If there was _anyone_ on Cybertron of a lower caste than Getaway, it had to be a Decepticon MTO beastformer. 

_Field commander_ . 

_Like the rules don’t apply to him._

Deathsaurus’s crew filled all the seats at their table in the corner. Deathsaurus looked around the room for an empty chair. The closest Autobot propped his feet on the empty chair at his table. Nearby, another Autobot dropped a heavy toolbox on the nearest vacant seat. The message was clear— _not for you, knock-off._

Deathsaurus’s gaze sharpened again. His optics flickered from seat to seat. Getaway had the impression of a large predator eyeing a herd of prey. Deathsaurus was evaluating—choosing his battle. He’d try to take an empty seat from… 

…from who? The mech who would be the easiest to intimidate? Or the mech who’d give him the best excuse to start a fight? 

The data in the Spec Ops file wasn’t anywhere near complete enough for Getaway to guess. 

Not yet, anyway. But he’d find out. Getaway was working, now. 

Getaway raised his hand, waved it. Deathsaurus’s head snapped towards the motion. 

_Predator, indeed._

Getaway gestured at the stool beside him. 

Two sets of optics widened in surprise, but the big Con shrugged and walked towards Getaway. He moved with the feral awareness of most beatformers, paired with a fluid grace that matched Jazz’s and an aura of authority far above his rank. 

Deathsaurus slid onto the stool and turned to Getaway. “You really don’t mind?” 

Getaway shrugged. “MTOs gotta help each other.” 

Getaway swore he could _see_ the switch that just flipped in the Decepticon’s head. Deathsaurus’s expression instantly became suspicious, and he didn’t even bother to try to hide it. “How do you know that?” 

_Not much for manners, is he?_ Getaway gave an equally blunt answer, though it was a lie. He wasn’t about to tell the Decepticon that Autobot Spec Ops had started a file on him. He wasn’t about to admit to ever having _heard of_ Autobot Spec Ops. He was just a soldier. A nobody, really. 

_No need to watch what you say around me._

“Look at you,” Getaway replied. “The Functionists would never have built someone like you, so you’re clearly not first-wave constructed cold. That means either you’re Forged, old, and very hard to kill, or you’re an MTO like me.” 

There—the bait was set. Something they had in common, on which they could build a relationship: faction aside, they were two MTOs trying to make their way in a Forged mech’s world. 

Deathsaurus bit. “Yeah, I’m an MTO. But also hard to kill.” He actually winked – both optics on his left side. 

“Getaway.” The escapologist offered his hand. 

The Decepticon took it. “People call me Deathsaurus.” 

“That’s a hell of a name.” 

Deathsaurus shrugged. “People call me it,” he said, as though he had nothing to do with the matter. 

Maybe he didn’t. Getaway’s instincts prickled with warning. If that name had been _earned_ rather than _chosen…_

_Decepticon Battalion Commander._

Oh yes, this mech was dangerous. 

The bartender approached them. “What are you having?” From the bartender’s body language, he didn’t much like Deathsaurus, but he was trying to conceal his distaste. Probably because he wanted the Decepticons’ money. 

“Weak energon spritzer,” Deathsaurus said. 

The bartender let out a short, barking laugh. “Really?”  
This was the point where most MTOs changed their request to the socially acceptable answer. It was also the point where short-tempered mechs revealed their anger at being made fun of. Getaway observed Deathsaurus closely. 

“Weak energon spritzer,” Deathsaurus repeated, slowly, enunciating. Once again, Getaway marveled at the Decepticon’s even, level tone—and the power move he’d made. Now the bartender had to either pretend he hadn’t heard the first time and serve the requested drink, or make his mockery explicit, at which point Deathsaurus would… 

…would what? 

Getaway wondered if the Decepticon was a master bluffer or the kind who was entirely ready to back up his threats. 

_They named him Deathsaurus._

If he were a gambler, Getaway would have put his money on _ready to back up his threats._

The bartender backed down and quietly served the requested drink. Deathsaurus paid without another word, as though the slight was forgiven and forgotten. And Getaway began to suspect how this Decepticon MTO had made an officer of himself. 

Prowl would definitely want to know more. 

* 

_Monacus_

_A hundred years later_

__

“Do they treat you properly?” Deathsaurus asked out of nowhere. “The Autobots.” 

Another cycle, another bar, and Getaway’s meetups with Deathsaurus had fallen into a comfortable sort of rhythm. They were not quite friends, but Deathsaurus seemed happy to meet up on occasion, drink and chat. Gradually, Getaway was learning the feral field commander’s mannerisms. 

Deathsaurus habitually ordered a weak energon spritzer, for one. And he didn’t dabble in fuel additives or any other substances. It was frustrating for Getaway—intoxicants loosened lips, but Deathsaurus was always in fighting form, always sober, always alert, and always ready for the unexpected. The one time Getaway had spiked Deathsaurus’s drink, the Decepticon had announced that it “smelled funny” and had “probably gone bad.” He’d poured it out. Getaway was left with nothing but his raw wits to get into Deathsaurus’s head. 

Another of Deathsaurus’s habits was speaking whatever was on his mind, which had gotten Deathsaurus—and Getaway—into more than a few bar fights. One would think a Field Commander would find brawling beneath him, but Deathsaurus had not changed himself to better suit his new rank. 

Here he was, speaking his mind again, with no deference to the fact that normal people didn’t ask such personal questions out of nowhere. 

A moment ago they’d been having what Getaway thought was a _fruitful_ conversation about Warlord Trannis and Air Commander Starscream, both of whom Deathsaurus had apparently pissed off by pointing out flaws in their battle plans. Getaway was very interested to know about friction in Decepticon High Command. He’d even started to guide the conversation towards a venting session, hoping that Deathsaurus would express some frustration with the way he was treated. Resentment, properly nurtured, could bear a bitter fruit which Getaway, and Spec Ops, could exploit. 

But out of nowhere, Deathsaurus had turned the conversation to Getaway. 

“Me?” Getaway stalled. “I…we were talking about Starscream…” 

“I want to know if the Autobot High Command is truly any better,” Deathsaurus said bluntly. 

“You mean for MTOs? Not really,” Getaway answered honestly. Honesty would help the Decepticon to trust him, wouldn’t it? “Everyone’s supposed to be equal, but that doesn’t change the fact that my first memory was plummeting into the middle of a battlefield, waiting for my brain to thaw enough to work my trigger finger, operating on instructions that someone else put into my head. You’ve really got to wonder about a philosophy which boldly states such things are wrong, and then goes ahead and does them anyway.” The words tasted sour in his mouth. 

Deathsaurus nodded. “Do you ever think about changing sides?” 

Getaway was thankful for his mask that hid his jaw drop. _He_ was the one who asked that question of Decepticons. He’d flipped a few, though usually, he wanted them to agree to work for him while still wearing the purple badge. Most of them were worth a lot less to Spec Ops if they actually changed their insignia. And if things went wrong for them while they still pledged purple…it was a lot easier for Spec Ops to wash their hands and walk away. 

Getaway bit back the urge to tell Deathsaurus that such a question should be asked more subtly. 

“What’s the point?” he replied instead. “You just said the Decepticon High Command is prejudiced against us. With bullies like Trannis treating you and your troops like cannon fodder, why shouldn’t I just stay with the faction I’m already in?”  
Getaway winced internally the second the words were out of his mouth, because of course Deathsaurus could use the same argument on him. He’d have to come up with something special to tempt the Decepticon into switching factions. 

_What do you want?_ Getaway eyed Deathsaurus, hating the other mech’s success. Deathsaurus seemed entirely too skilful at getting things all on his own. Getaway would have his work cut out for him, finding out what vice could coax Deathsaurus to cross the line. 

Deathsaurus leaned closer. “Because I have a policy of treating my troops like _people_.” He rested his hand on Getaway’s. 

Getaway’s optics widened when the pieces clicked together. 

_He’s inviting me to switch sides._

Deathsaurus couldn’t fix prejudice in either Decepticon or Autobot High Command, but he was offering Getaway the best deal he could— _come work for me, and you’ll get your respect from me and mine, at least._

Later, Getaway would laugh at the irony of two people each hoping to turn the other. 

“What’s the catch?” he asked with a sardonic laugh. “What do I have to do to earn my place in your crew?” 

“Earn?” Deathsaurus tilted his head curiously and peered at Getaway. “Well, you’d have to pull your weight in my regiment. We don’t coddle slackers.” 

Getaway snorted. “Do my job, obviously…but what else?” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head in the opposite direction, visibly confused and doing nothing to hide it. 

“What do you get from having me in your regiment?” Getaway asked point-blank. 

Deathsaurus spluttered. “I get _you_.” 

Getaway would wonder, later, if a literal shot through the spark would feel so devastating. 

He wouldn’t remember what he said to Deathsaurus. Something about needing to think it over. He’d recall that he pretended to get a comm from a friend. He’d made his excuses and beat a hasty retreat. 

He’d driven in circles for hours after that. 

_I get you_ . As if Getaway, as he was, could be prize enough for Deathsaurus. 

Flattery was not to be trusted, and Getaway was a good Autobot, who would not fall for such an obvious trap. 

Oh, he was going to get under the hide of that overachieving Decepticon and when he did, he would make Prowl so very proud of him. A SpecOps asset in Decepticon High Command, and it would all be Getaway’s doing. 

_I get you._

Getaway set his eyes on the prize: second-in-command of SpecOps, or maybe he’d get out of the spy business entirely and aim for a promotion to the legitimate civil service. He’d never get anywhere like that if he joined Deathsaurus’s infantry. Getaway was not going back onto a conventional battlefield for anything. 

Not even Deathsaurus’s good regard. 

* 

_Cybertron_

_A few thousand years later_

_Almost one million years before present day_

Getaway almost declined the meeting. _Almost_. 

After this many centuries, Getaway was certain that Autobot SpecOps were never going to get anywhere with Deathsaurus. The mech remained wary. Distant. Evasive. Getaway would have thought he’d blown his cover, except that Deathsaurus was like that with _everyone_. Everyone except his soldiers. Deathsaurus had outright admitted he appreciated that Getaway, unlike everyone else, didn’t seem to hold his obvious distrust against him. 

Getaway _did_ hold it against him, truth be told. Deathsaurus would have made such a fantastic agent if only Getaway could have turned him. Instead, Getaway had wasted all this time in occasional drinks and casual meetings, chatting about nothing of importance, just in case someday Deathsaurus spontaneously decided to trust him. He wasn’t holding his breath. 

Long ago Getaway had limited the amount of time he wasted on making nice with Deathsaurus in order to focus on more fruitful initiatives. They met very rarely—once every few decades. So when Deathsaurus had sent him an invitation to meet up, Getaway was tempted to say no. 

Now, sitting in the back corner of Maccadam’s Old Oil House, Getaway was very glad he’d said yes. 

“A star drive,” Getaway repeated. 

“That’s right.” Deathsaurus did not mince words. “You’ve often said you’d be interested in helping me out if I ever needed a favour. I need a favour now. I need a star drive for my Warworld.” 

Getaway stared at Deathsaurus’s earnest features and wondered if it was possible for a mech to make the rank of Warworld Commander without understanding that when an Autobot offered to do a Decepticon a favour—or vice versa—there were certain strings attached. 

“That’s a pretty big favour,” Getaway said slyly, “but I might be able to help you out, if…” 

“You’re not my only option,” Deathsaurus said bluntly. 

_What?!_

“Then why are you asking?” Getaway snapped. “A member of the opposing faction, no less?” 

“Because I’m in a hurry and I’m trying to avoid starting trouble with Supply and Requisition,” Deathsaurus retorted. “Believe me, I _can_. But Warlord Trannis is making coy remarks about forwarding my name to the DJD if I keep being… _A pest_ is what he called me. As if he wouldn’t do the same if _his_ Warworld was underpowered.” 

Getaway hadn’t heard about problems in the Decepticon supply chain. He clamped down on his voxcoder. Deathsaurus’s presumption was still irritating, but one of the most important lessons he’d learned as a spy was to keep quiet and listen. Sometimes people just dropped useful information onto his plate for free. Like Deathsaurus was doing now. 

Deathsaurus looked Getaway optic-to-optic. “I know it isn’t free. But trying to force yet another requisition through official channels is going to require me to pay a different kind of price. I’m…weighing my choices. Calculating which is going to hurt less.” 

“A star drive,” Getaway mused. “What would a Warworld commander need with one of those?” 

“It’s what I told you. My Warworld is underpowered. Our star drive is nearly burned out. I don’t want to lose power in the middle of combat. My crew…” Deathsaurus took a deep breath. His wings flared. “My crew deserve better than that.” 

“And you’re in a hurry.” Getaway’s gaze sharpened. “You’re on a deadline.” 

“I could say I want my crew safe sooner rather than later…” 

Getaway made a waving-off motion. 

Now Deathsaurus looked uncomfortable. “I know I have to pay you with something, and I don’t have any shanix.” 

Getaway’s instincts latched onto that statement. Decepticons paid their officers well—their stipend was bigger than that of their Autobot equivalents—so why was Deathsaurus broke? What was he spending his money on? 

That was something to investigate later. 

Right now, Getaway had to get the big Con on his hook. The best way to do that was to make the first payment seem minor. Easy. No big deal, in the large scheme of things. But enough to keep Deathsaurus coming back for more, until he was in too deep to get out. Until Getaway had enough to blackmail him with. 

First step—reassure the mark. “Let’s have a chat, then,” Getaway said. “I’m sure we can find a way to help each other out. Find a solution that works for both of us.” 

Deathsaurus folded his wings and relaxed. He nodded agreeably. 

“What would you say matters the most to you? This star drive…what do you want it for? And why so quickly?” 

“I can’t tell you about any military actions that will put my crew in your army’s line of fire.” 

Getaway sighed. “You are a suspicious spawn of a glitch, you know that?” 

“If either of us were any more trusting, would we be sitting here? Or would we be rusting hulks on some forsaken battlefield…like so many of our brothers?” 

“Heh.” Getaway wondered how much he and Deathsaurus were alike. Deathsaurus might have a higher rank, but the mech would make a terrible spy. “Then why not tell me about someone you hate?” 

Deathsaurus cocked his head.

“You know. Lord Trannis. The Triumverate. One of those mechs who think people like me, like you, like your _crew_ , are good for nothing but cannon fodder. I mean…what _if_ something bad happened to Trannis?” 

“Then I’d get a promotion to fleet commander.” Deathsaurus paused. “The promotion I _should_ have had.” 

Getaway felt a smile spread across his face. His mask concealed it. 

“Oh?” was all he said. 

Deathsaurus flared his wings in a feral gesture of aggravation. “I _deserved_ that promotion. I _earned_ it. But Megatron gave it to Trannis instead. He said…” Deathsaurus drew in a ragged breath. “He said I was too _hesitant_. Too _conservative_ in my risk-taking. He said Trannis’s priority was _victory._ ” 

…Hadn’t Prowl recently given a speech about how his priority was victory? Getaway pushed the thought aside. He’d finally gotten Deathsaurus to rant, and Deathsaurus was giving him plenty of material to work with. 

“Trannis is a problem for everyone,” Getaway said slowly. “I think I should be able to get you that star drive, and quite possibly that promotion as well…and all you have to do is tell me a few things about Warlord Trannis.” 

So Deathsaurus did. 

* 

_Iacon_

_One month later_

Getaway strolled into the lounge where Mirage, Jazz, and Skids had already gathered. When Prowl arrived, the Spec Ops meeting would begin. 

“You look cheerful,” Mirage commented. 

Getaway couldn’t help but feeling a little smug. “Guess who I’ve got on my hook?” He grinned and leaned towards Mirage. “Bomp.” 

“Will you stop that?” Mirage complained. “You know I hate it.” 

Getaway laughed. “Deathsaurus. I’ve got Deathsaurus owing me big time, and better yet, I have it _recorded_. Proof of my meeting two weeks ago, handing Deathsaurus a star drive in exchange for confidential information on Warlord Trannis. A recording that goes straight to the DJD if Deathsaurus doesn’t cooperate with us from now on.” 

Mirage scowled. Getaway remembered that Mirage had tried to turn Deathsaurus at one point long ago; it hadn’t worked out at all, because the elegant, sophisticated Mirage had no common ground with MTO trash like Deathsaurus, while Getaway… 

Getaway felt his spark sink. 

_I’m not trash. I’m not._

_I’m Prowl’s best agent…if not now, then soon. I just won a victory. There’s no reason to feel like this._

“My man,” Jazz said slowly, “I have some bad news for you.” 

Getaway felt his fuel pump stop. 

Jazz vented heavily. “Deathsaurus is gone.” 

“Gone.” Getaway didn’t understand what Jazz was implying. Was _gone_ a new euphemism for _dead_? Had a Decepticon agent seen the exchange of the star drive? “What do you mean, _gone_?” 

“I mean he split. Blew town. Took off.” 

Skids cleared his throat. “Jazz got a report from his contacts that Deathsaurus has been marked absent without leave. You know how Warworlds are property of the Decepticon Empire?” 

Getaway nodded dumbly. 

“The Decepticons think…and the evidence strongly suggests…they believe Deathsaurus stole his. With his whole crew aboard. Full supplies, full weapons compliment, and right after a complete retrofit…” 

“All the way down to the star drive,” Getaway said weakly. 

Jazz nodded. “And nobody knows where in the galaxy they’ve gone. They’ve just up and vanished.” 

“They’re not answering their comms,” Skids added. “They didn’t leave any messages behind. They took everything they could get their hands on and they did a runner, and the Cons lost track of them right around the wormholes out by Van Dorzen’s Moon.” 

Getaway’s head spun. He wasn’t going to get any future data from Deathsaurus if the Warworld commander was _gone_. 

“Sorry,” Skids said quietly. “I know you thought you were getting somewhere with Deathsaurus.” 

“But…this doesn’t make sense,” Getaway spluttered. “Every time Deathsaurus and I got together all he could talk about was how he kept getting passed over for promotions, how all he needed was a little support and some decent equipment to really show them what he was capable of, how he couldn’t wait to replace Trannis as Fleet Commander, how was going to make Legonis, Octus and Seizer sorry they dismissed him for being a…M…T…” 

_Oh._

Getaway felt his spark crushed between the unstoppable force of a tide of hatred for Deathsaurus, and the immovable object that was the hate he felt for himself. 

Deathsaurus—that disgusting _beastformer_ —had fed Getaway an explanation that made so much sense to an ambitious MTO turned SpecOps agent. And Getaway had believed him without question. 

“I don’t think Deathsaurus cares about promotions,” Mirage said. Whether he meant to or not, to Getaway it felt as though Mirage was rubbing it in. “He didn’t even seem to care if anyone liked him much. Except his crew.” Mirage rubbed at a non-existant smudge on his finish. “All he ever cared about was his crew.” 

“Why do you think he split, then?” Skids asked, looking first at Mirage, then Jazz, then Getaway. 

Getaway felt his fuel tanks turn over. “His crew,” he whispered. “He said Megatron and the Triumverate kept sending his Warworld on suicide missions. That Warlord Trannis cared more about winning battles than about the welfare of the mechs under his command.” 

_It was never about the promotion._

“Deathsaurus said…he said he wanted to prove he was good enough to succeed. That’s how he got his rank in the first place. Pulling off missions that should have killed him. He said all he needed was the right equipment.” Getaway clasped his hands. “But every suicide mission would have risked his crew’s lives right alongside him. Mirage, if what you’re saying is true…” __

Mirage scowled. 

Getaway pressed on. “Megatron risked his crew one time too many and he’s called it quits. Taken his people and struck out on his own.” 

Getaway’s spark flickered in his chest. He remembered that night on the rooftop in Monacus. The beastformer’s invitation to join his crew. __

The Decepticons hadn’t treated Deathsaurus right, and he’d fled…No. _Fled_ wasn’t the right word. Deathsaurus had left on his own terms. He’d _departed_ to build his crew a new life in the stars. 

Getaway wondered what it might have been like, if he’d accepted Deathsaurus’s offer. He’d be on that Warworld right now. 

He wondered if it was possible for MTOs to build their own paradise. 

_No. They’re going to fail. A Warworld’s supplies won’t last forever. And nobody likes Cybertronians, not since Megatron started his campaign of organic genocide. Deathsaurus and his people will be tired and broke and hungry and they’ll come limping back to Cybertron, begging Megatron to take them back, and they’ll end up right where they started, running kamikaze missions for the Triumverate. If the DJD doesn’t get them first._

_The only way for us MTOs to succeed is to be so good at what we do that nobody can ignore us._

Yes, Getaway wanted Deathsaurus to fail. It would serve him right. What kind of hubris did it take, to feel that he was so special that nobody else’s opinion of him mattered? Acknowledgement was _everything_ and Deathsaurus treated it like _nothing_. He’d pay for that. If there was any justice in the universe, he’d suffer for his arrogance. 

In the meantime, Getaway wouldn’t waste any more time on Deathsaurus, or on kicking himself for failing to see the way the beastformer had tricked him. He had a few other projects he was working on. Surely at least one of them was certain to earn Prowl’s favour. 

Getaway was going to become someone, even if it killed him. 

* 

_Almost one million years later_

_At the same time as Lost Light #8_

Getaway slouched over a drink in a dingy spaceport bar in the third-largest city on Ritaxa Prime and told himself he’d done the right thing. 

Ritaxa _Prime_. 

_Eyes on the prize. You get your ship to Cyberutopia. And if the Knights don’t see how special you are, you do what it takes to convince them._

_Whatever it takes._

Getaway smiled to himself, imagining what Prowl would say when he returned to Cybertron as a Prime. 

_I solved your Megatron problem. And I was made a Prime…_

Getaway felt his fuel pump beating faster. He let the daydream unfold. 

_I was made a Prime by the Guiding Hand—by Primus Himself._

Getaway raised his glass, turned to his right…but no one was there. 

Of course not. Ritaxa Prime was not Cybertronian friendly territory. Atomizer was on the ship, keeping watch while they took on supplies as quickly as possible. And Skids was… 

Skids was on Necroworld with Megatron and the DJD. 

At least, what was left of him, by this point. 

Getaway’s good mood came crashing down. Regret rose around his spark like floodwaters. If he didn’t figure out how to swim, he’d be overcome. 

_Skids. I never meant to turn you over to the DJD._

Getaway wasn’t exactly sorry that Megatron had been done in by the death squad he’d organized and trained himself. There was a poetic justice in such an end. 

But Skids…Nautica…Velocity… They hadn’t deserved to die by the DJD’s hands. 

_It wasn’t my fault_ . 

Getaway took a large gulp from his mug. 

_I called the Galactic Council. They’d have executed Megatron and let the others go._

Would they, though? 

Would they _really_? 

Was it wise for Getaway to trust that the Galactic Council—who had no love for Cybertronians—would just have released the others? Particularly if Rodimus lost his temper and shot off his mouth? 

_Then that would be Rodimus’s fault._

_I’m not to blame. I turned Megatron over to the authorities. Authorities who have some interest in actual_ justice. _Unlike the court on Cybertron_. 

_That the DJD overheard my call was pure coincidence._

Yes, this was Rodimus’s fault. All the result of Rodimus’s actions. 

_If Rodimus hadn’t sided with Megatron, I wouldn’t have had to overthrow him._

_Rodimus made his choice. Doesn’t he deserve the consequences of that choice?_

_Don’t all of them?_

The rest of Rodimus and Megatron’s associates had been given the opportunity to join Getaway, and all of them had declined. Skids had declined _twice_. 

_You can mourn Skids all you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that he deserved what he got._

Getaway wished he could feel…exonerated. Instead he just felt sad. Sad, tired, and alone. 

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. 

The crew wasn’t supposed to leave the spaceport. If there was a problem, Atomizer should have called on his communicator. 

Getaway turned around. 

And came face to face with the biggest, meanest, ugliest Mauler he’d ever seen. 

Not that he’d ever seen a Mauler in person before. There were very few Cybertronians who had and lived to tell about it. The Maulers were, as a whole, the most virulent anti-mechanical species in the universe, and they weren’t shy about acting on their hatred. It was one more little legacy that Megatron had left behind him. 

The Mauler snarled something in a language Getaway didn’t understand. 

“I was just leaving,” Getaway said, “no need for trouble.” He wondered if he could talk his way out of this situation. There was no way he could fight his way out of it—the Mauler was almost twice his height, and the _Lost Light_ crew couldn’t get here fast enough to give him backup. 

The Mauler slammed one fist into its open palm, making it clear that it _wanted_ trouble. 

Getaway watched, wide-eyed, as a blue mechanical hand rose up behind the Mauler’s shoulder and tapped it three times. 

The Mauler turned. 

A blue fist smashed into the Mauler’s jaw in a vicious uppercut, sending the huge organic staggering backwards into the barstool beside Getaway. The Mauler stumbled, sagging back against the bar. 

Deathsaurus flared his wings, landing neatly on his feet. Apparently he’d sprang right up off the ground as he’d hit the Mauler, putting even more force behind his punch. His knuckles, Getaway noticed, were dented. He carried a box tucked in the crook of his other arm. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head at Getaway and said one word. “Run!” 

The Mauler groaned. Getaway needed no further incentive. 

Deathsaurus had already taken off towards the back exit of the bar. Getaway sprinted to intercept him. “Deathsaurus, no! This way!” 

“I’m the most infamous deserter in the history of the Decepticon Empire—do you not think I know how to get myself out of a tight situation?” 

“And I’m an _escapologist_ ,” Getaway snapped. 

“All right. We’ll go _your_ way.” 

Getaway couldn’t help but feel a bit smug as he led Deathsaurus into the staff area of the bar, past the kitchen, through the store room and out to the loading docks. 

“Now where?” The big Decepticon sniffed the wind while clutching his box to his chest. “Scent says the Mauler has friends in the area.” 

“I’m going up to the roof and waiting for my crew—who I messaged as we were leaving—to come pick me up.” 

“Great. What about me?” 

Getaway shrugged. “You’ve got wings, right?” 

Deathsaurus smirked, and when Getaway bolted up the stairway, Deathsaurus was on his heels. 

“I suppose I could offer you a ride,” Getaway said, “but I seem to recall you never paid me back for the last favour I gave you.” 

“Are you Mauler chow right now?” Deathsaurus retorted. “Because if not, I’d say we’re even.” 

Getaway almost choked. The Spec Ops agent in him argued that his price had been information, and that price had not yet been sufficiently paid. But something else in him was stunned to realize that Deathsaurus could have let that Mauler pulverize him and just walked on by. Could have, and didn’t. 

They burst out onto the roof. Getaway listened for sounds of pursuit and heard only his own, and Deathsaurus’s, engines racing. 

The Decepticon stalked to the edge of the roof and leaned against the rail. “I really did feel badly,” Deathsaurus said, looking out over the smoggy city rooftops. “Leaving you so little in exchange for that star drive.” His optics—both pairs—shifted towards Getaway. “Would you understand if I said my first obligation was to my crew? To get them out of there before the next suicide mission got any more of their number killed for nothing.” 

Getaway chose his words carefully. It wouldn’t do to be overly sympathetic to a Decepticon. “I understand how it feels to choose a primary obligation, at the expense of all others.” 

_I’m sorry, Skids._

_Megatron had to go._

_And I’ve got to make it to Cyberutopia._

“I’m glad I had a chance to repay you,” Deathsaurus said, “even if it was all these years later. A life for a life.” 

The war was over, and Deathsaurus had spent the last million years on the run out here on the Galactic Rim. Getaway doubted that Deathsaurus had any data that would be of any interest to anyone now. Perhaps a life for a life was a fair repayment, after all. 

“Why are you even on Ritaxa Prime?” Getaway inquired. “If you don’t mind my asking. This isn’t exactly a welcoming place for Cybertronians.” 

Deathsaurus grinned and opened the box. 

Inside was a big glowing purple crystal. The inner component of a star drive. 

“We’ve just about burned out the one you gave me,” Deathsaurus said with a double wink. “And there aren’t many places in this quadrant where you can get a crystal strong enough to power an entire Warworld.” He carefully closed the box again. “But you’re right. That’s why I left my crew on the ship and came alone.” 

“Still looking after your crew.” 

“It’s what I’m for.” Deathsaurus spoke with perfect assurance. 

Getaway couldn’t help but ask himself: _what am I for?_

His hands closed into fists. _Justice. Becoming a Prime. Going back to Cybertron in glory and fixing all the things that Rodimus and Optimus and Prowl messed up._

_Prowl oversaw the MTO program and Optimus Prime let him._

_It’s up to me to set it right._

“Do you ever think about going home?” Getaway asked. 

Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge. 

“Back to Cybertron,” Getaway clarified. 

“Cybertron isn’t my home,” Deathsaurus said. “Never was, really. My home is my crew. And what we’ve built for ourselves.” 

“But don’t you…don’t you feel the urge to go back and…fix things? Like Starscream. I’m told he never had anything nice to say about Decepticon MTOs. As if the only way he could make himself feel better about being constructed cold is to kick people like you and me down.” 

“So?” 

“So Starscream’s in power on Cybertron now. Seems to me you could teach him the error of his ways. I don’t think any scheme he could cook up could save him from a fiercely loyal and combat-hardened army of MTOs with a score to settle.” 

Deathsaurus looked at Getaway oddly. “What makes you think I care in the slightest what Starscream’s doing?” 

“Because,” Getaway spluttered. “Because he’s sitting in a cushy throne on Cybertron and you’re out here, a fugitive on the Rim. Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?” 

“I don’t want a throne on Cybertron.” Deathsaurus’s gaze was uncomfortably intense. “Do you?” 

Getaway didn’t want to answer that question. He deflected the conversation towards another topic instead. “Why’d you follow me?” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. 

“Down there. In the bar. You’re right, you clearly plan your escape routes or you wouldn’t still be alive. So why’d you follow me?” 

“They call you _Getaway_ ,” Deathsaurus said, as though the answer were obvious. 

“Pfft.” Getaway considered the consequences of taking Deathsaurus’s intended way out. “You were aiming for the sewers, weren’t you?” 

Deathsaurus nodded. 

“The bouncers’ break room is on the bottom level of this building. You’d have had to fight your way through them.” 

“They call me _Deathsaurus_ ,” the Decepticon answered softly. 

Right. Getaway didn’t fancy his odds against those bouncers, but apparently Deathsaurus was sure he could have taken them. And, eyeing the Decepticon’s powerful frame and savage claws, Getaway suspected he probably could have. 

“That’s not my real name, though,” Deathsaurus said abruptly. 

Getaway raised an optic ridge, trying to look curious, even though he knew what was coming. 

Or thought he did. 

“Your file’s wrong, too.” 

Getaway held his breath. 

“The Spec Ops file. It says Scimitar of the First Urayan Offensive, doesn’t it?” 

Getaway’s fuel tank turned over. It was never good when a mark had the drop on him. 

“Oh, come on.” Deathsaurus grinned. “Do you really think I’d have asked you to get me a star drive if I hadn’t known you were Spec Ops?” 

_I’ve obviously been made. But if he wanted to attack me, he’d have done it by now._

“That’s what it said,” Getaway admitted. There was no point in lying any more. 

Deathsaurus sagged, as though disappointed. “Oh.” 

“What, you’re sorry?” 

“I was hoping…” The Decepticon folded his hands behind his back. “I was hoping you had more answers than I did.” 

“If Scimitar’s a false identity, who are you really?” 

_You’re Forged, aren’t you?_

Getaway was suddenly terrified that Deathsaurus had always been a _real_ person, playing the role of a MTO. 

“Scimitar actually existed. He was a unit commander when I met him. I stole his identity and took his place.” Deathsaurus paused. “Shortly after I killed him.” 

_That’s Decepticons for you._

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Don’t look at me like that. He was a thoroughly nasty piece of work. And there was a war on—you shouldn’t feel badly for a dead Decepticon.” 

“So, before Scimitar…who were you?” 

Deathsaurus shrugged helplessly. “I don’t have a batch code or serial number.” 

_Who doesn’t have a batch code or serial number?_

_Megatron, for one._

_Overlord, for another._

_Whose creation gets left off the books?_

_Who isn’t supposed to exist?_

Deathsaurus spoke his name as though it were a question. “My real name is Deszaras-336?” 

“What kind of a designation,” Getaway began, and then some scattered pieces clicked into a rough idea. “Deszaras. That’s the Decepticon Super MTO project code name.” 

Deathsaurus frowned. “Scimitar was a Super MTO. He didn’t have a name like mine. With the numbers and all.” __

“It’s not a name.” Getaway felt his throat tighten. “It’s a _prototype designation_.” 

“Oh,” Deathsaurus said, and then clearly his pieces started clicking together too. “ _Oh_.” 

“That _is_ your batch code and serial number. What the hell did you _do_ ,” Getaway demanded, before he realized that he didn’t want to know. Before he remembered that experimental prototypes weren’t people. They weren’t even supposed to be fragging _sapient_ and yet one of them had evidently managed to get out of its lab and steal the identity of a real person and make a _Warworld commander_ of itself, only to turn its back on all its accomplishments because it didn’t give a sweet damn about any of it. 

In that moment Getaway hated Deathsaurus with every atom of his being, for starting with less, ending with more, and valuing it so little that he’d thought nothing of throwing it all away. 

Deathsaurus shrugged. “I survived.” He paused. “Then I found something to make survival rewarding. A reason better than defiance and spite.” 

“Your crew,” Getaway said weakly. The only thing Deathsaurus cared about. 

“My offer’s still open,” Deathsaurus said, and Getaway felt shamed, because he loathed the Decepticon and yet Deathsaurus still seemed concerned about him. Not in spite of his being a MTO, but because of it. “If you’re not properly respected where you are.” 

“I’m a captain now,” Getaway said. “Just like you.” 

Deathsaurus grinned and opened his mouth and Getaway expected a congratulations, because that was what normal people did. 

“Does it make you happy?” Deathsaurus asked. 

_Right. Because you don’t care about validation. You’re content to go through life as a…a thing, and all you care about is your crew, a pack of MTOs almost as worthless as you are._

“Yes,” Getaway lied. 

“Good.” Deathsaurus smiled, and his sincerity felt like a knife to the spark, and Getaway hated him all over again. 

“Safe travels,” Getaway said, hoping the Maulers caught up with Deathsaurus and his Warworld. 

“And to you…Captain.” Deathsaurus changed shape and took the box with his star drive into his beast mode’s beak. Then he hopped over the railing, flared his wings, and glided away into the smoggy night. 

No, Getaway didn’t feel tempted to join up with Deathsaurus, the way he had during the war. He was the captain of his own ship, he was flying it to Cyberutopia, and when he got there, he was going to be a Prime. One way or another, he was going to be a Prime. 

No matter what it took. 


End file.
